


Miséricorde

by Angelas



Series: Cigarettes and Soda [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Ballet, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Infatuation, Language, Prosody, Slow Burn, its gonna get dark, its gonna get deep, major age difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: In which Sakura is a young aspiring dancer, and the instructor is not what she imagined.





	1. Ribbons

**Author's Note:**

> I was honestly not sure how to rate this. All I know is that this story will be exploring a lot of intimate territory, on the precipice of perhaps making some people very uncomfortable. Still, I wanted to create something that felt real, as well as to express my love for these characters. Here goes.
> 
> all beta credit goes to my [beloved](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian) who is forever the wisest♡ I love you.

**oOo**

The drive to the little shopping plaza down the road has for sure taken longer than it should. Such is life, however. In Chiyo’s ancient Buick.

It’s Friday afternoon, the week before eighth grade— _the day before ballet_ —and the sun has sunk behind the chalky autumn clouds. It’s cold, an early winter gripping to the dappled sky. Wet sidewalks brown with mud, no sign of last month’s summer.

The car tuckers to a stop, one of five, and with a series of doe-eyed pretty pleases, Sakura lands a kiss on Chiyo’s cheek and frolics on ahead to claim a shopping cart. A caper to her step, legs swiftly leaping over gum stains on the pavement. She does it on her toes at first, then spins her best pirouette, anticipating what it may be like for tomorrow with real life ballet shoes.

She drags a cart out from the cart corral and races it to the shop’s front entrance. Wild zigzags in between, readily outdistancing her grandmother.

“Brazen child,” calls out Chiyo. “I’ll be wheeling in a gurney the day you slip from all that prancing—”

“That’s old talk, nana,” giggles Sakura. “No one says that anymore!”

She waits for Chiyo to catch up. Then she pivots to the side, hauling the door to the thrift store open with a bow.

“Grandmas first!” she smiles.

 

They step inside. It’s warm. Waft of pre-owned books, amber mood. Quiet jazz tunes play on repeat for the customers.

Sakura keeps close to Chiyo, clinging to her arm as the steely cart squeaks through the tiny aisles. She looks around. An old couple and their poodle, a fretful woman with a cloche hat examining an antique record player. No one else. They pass the children’s section. Bric-a-brac, toys, then finally the women’s. Lace and yellow halter dresses. Satin party skirts, negligees, used high heels on proud display.

Sakura threads her fingers through the clothing as they go. She spots a batch of vintage suits, frilly at the sleeves. She falls behind to sift through them. Soon, she thinks, she’ll fit them like the agent girls in movies. For things like prom and dates and costume college parties—

“Here, child,” beckons Chiyo. “I think we’ve hit the jackpot.”

Sakura turns, peering to where Chiyo gestures with a clever smile. Her heart jumps. It’s all there, rearmost in the teen’s department. Tutus, light pink leotards, _ballet shoes_.

Beaming, Sakura lopes forward and flings herself on Chiyo, squeezing tightly with both arms.

She sniffles through a whisper, “Thank you so much, gramma.”

**oOo**

She rouses the next morning to the faint pattering of rain outside the window. Her eyes shoot open the moment that she wakes.

Excitement tugs her lip. She rolls out of her blankets in a whisk, wiping her eyes as she hustles to open up her closet. She dresses in her outfit (super careful, limb for limb), and neatly stows the slippers into her trusty Star-Lord backpack. She swings it on, then leaps to stand before the full-length mirror on her door.

Just an hour more, she thinks. _Just an hour more_.

“Just breathe, Sakura,” she tells herself. She brings her arms up high, crossing her wrists above her head, her left ankle shadowing the other. She keeps position. Her muscles strain. “Breathe…”

She hardly can.

Her lips press, wondering what the instructor will be like. If she’ll be nice or mean, short or tall, if all the other girls in class are there already—

“Sakura!” is Chiyo’s holler. “Breakfast!”

“Coming!”

She sidesteps from position, tucks her hair behind her ears, and whizzes down the little hall towards the apartment’s kitchenette.

 

Two full bowls of oatmeal steaming on the table. Sakura slides the chair and sits, thanking Chiyo as she lays out spoons and napkins for the both of them.

They dig in. Sakura swings her legs beneath the table, catching sight of the paint stains blotting Chiyo’s arms and sweater.

“Did you finish the painting, nana?” she asks, wiping milk stains from her mouth.

“Not quite,” sighs Chiyo. She takes a sip of coffee. Her eyes look tired, the skin on her wrists gone thin with age. Sakura’s throat begins to ache. Raw. Like guilt or worry. She swallows, forcing herself to look away. “—all that racket from those oafs upstairs. But I swear, one more night of it and they’ll be hearing it from that no-good landlord. Not that the toad would _do_ much for it—”

Sakura leans in, mischief-quiet. “You know,” she chuckles, “we could always sick you-know-who on them.”

Chiyo’s cackle fills the room.

“Sasori? Feh. That boy cannot be bothered.”

The rain outside lets down, but the slam of heavy wind claws yet on the windows. Sakura pokes the porridge with her spoon, her foot marking lazy circles on the carpet underneath her.

“Nana?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go on.”

She hesitates, gaze focused on her bowl. “Do you think… I’ll be an artist, too? Like you and uncle Sasori?”

Chiyo smiles, her eyes crinkling gently at the corners.

“Why, you already are, child.” She reaches, ruffling Sakura’s short pink mess of hair. “You’re a _dancer_.”

**oOo**

Half an hour in, and Chiyo drops her off.

From outside, the building’s shorter and a lot smaller than Sakura had thought. Old spray paint freckled on its walls, lay of smaller businesses (delis and a lonely yogurt shop) flanking left to right. Noise of rushing cars, barren parking lot. Sakura’s fingers knot into the fabric of her tutu.

“Oh, child,” sighs Chiyo. Her tone is soft, remorseful. “Had I more luck with those flighty art collectors—”

Sakura shakes her head, lurching to the side to catch Chiyo in her arms.

“It’s perfect, grandma.”

She pecks a kiss on Chiyo’s cheek, then pulls away, beaming as she does away her seatbelt.

“See you later!”

She waves, hoisting up her pack before skipping through the double doors.

 

Inside, the walls are newly painted, row of leather chairs lined neatly side to side. For when the parents start to come, Sakura supposes.

She makes her way to the murmuring of voices, courage tightening in her gut, and steps into the only open room. She tenses for a moment, standing there, gripping tightly to her backpack as she catches sight of everyone in front of her.

The room goes quiet. All glance back in her direction.

Late, then. But not as late as the instructor. Sakura swallows, willing the muscles in her legs to move. She finds a spot, aside the mirror, and last to a girl who turns around to look at her. Down and up, down and up.

“I like your hair,” she says.

“Thank you,” smiles Sakura. “I like yours, too—”

The girl snaps a bubble with her gum. She doesn’t smile back.

Slow, and in some fragile reflex of uncertainty, Sakura shoulders off her pack, sinking to the floor so that she may switch her shoes. The girl turns around again, this time whispering to the student standing next to her.

_They’re so dirty._

_Ugh, you’re so mean._

_Maybe she’s poor…_

_Oh my god, maybe._

Some wounding cinch, twisting sharply in her stomach. Still, Sakura ignores it, focusing instead on the ribbons of her shoes. Eventually, the girls turn back around. Sakura stands, allowing her chin to raise up high, her shoulders firm. Like this, she silently canvasses the room. Twelve others in the class, two of whom undeniably stick out to her. Across her, the only boy in class, skin so white she has to stare a bit in order to believe it. Short black hair, limbs lithe, wired strong with dancer’s sinew. No expression, just the faint nuance of an artificial smile as the girl beside him chatters on and on. But it’s the student leading at the front who immediately captures Sakura’s attention:

Long blonde hair tied tall upon her head, swinging gently as she speaks. Blue eyes, purple leotard and tutu. Glittered ribbons to her slippers, an aplomb to her posture as the girls around her beg to touch her hair, what brand of perfume she is wearing.

“Oh, Ino,” one exclaims. “You always come to class so pretty!”

“I bet there’s someone for it!”

One of them leans in. “Is it Sai? Oh, _I know_ , it’s totally Kak—”

Suddenly, a man walks in. All shoot back to their positions.

Silence.

Sakura’s pulse begins to quicken, a mothing flutter to her veins, down, to the tendons of her knees. She straightens up her back despite it, hands made flat against her thighs, _staring_.

“Sorry, class.” It’s more a drawl. The man tosses his keys to the side, using his foot to close the door behind him. “Got lost on the path of life.”

A faint murmur from somewhere in the back. _He always says that_.

Indeed, the instructor is not at all a woman, but this man. Dressed in black, all skintight, and very naked at the shoulders. Tall. Lean, fair of skin, like the powdered gypsum Chiyo sometimes uses as a finish to her sculptures.

He circles the room, quietly counting down the rows. He’s barefoot. A small black dot stippled to the upper portion of his chin, hair hued soft in snowy silvers. He finishes the count, tapping steady on his lip. He goes up front, overlooking as if searching for a difference. The muscle in his forearm flexes. Sakura nibbles on her lip.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s right. We’ve got a new student in the class.”

He smiles, though the tone of his voice is candidly indifferent.

“Well. I’m Kakashi. Or Hatake. Or Mr. Hatake. I don’t really care.” He taps his chin again. “As for things I like. I like a lot of things.” He pauses, turning swiftly on his heel. “So. Which one of you is new?”

Sakura feels her bones congeal. She swallows. Her heart drums holes inside her chest. She raises her hand. Her elbow shakes.

Slowly, Kakashi’s gaze lowers down upon her.

“Ah,” he says.

And that is all he says, before he continues forth with the instruction.

**oOo**

They start with stretches. Left foot high upon the metal bar, then the right, checking for posture on the wall-length mirror facing them.

It doesn’t take long for Sakura to realize that she is far behind. That she does not stretch as well as neither Sai or Ino, that sometimes she must risk a whisper to the girl beside her for some insight on most the terms Kakashi exerts.

“It’s when you jump a little,” the girl whispers in return. Debussy’s _La Mer_ soothes into the speakers. “Then cross your legs. Like this. Then—”

He walks by. The girl turns back around. Sakura doesn’t ask again. They’re on glissades now. He restarts the count. A dozen battements. He demonstrates all twelve before them. Like water, some facile élan to his limbs. Sakura tries her best to mimic him. She falls the first time, but not the second. She bites her lip, lands piqué each time he culminates the count. She feels sweat begin to varnish on her brow. A couple cycles more, then they’re left on water break.

The girls crowd outside the room (Sai, too), chattering near the snack machines. Sakura stays behind, staring at her best piqué before the mirror. But that’s not the only thing she stares at in the mirror.

Behind her, and in his office, Kakashi stands with a handheld book cradled in his palm. Chintzy orange cover, notable restriction on the back. He turns the page, sipping bit-by-bit into his soda. Gleam of sweat on both his shoulders, on his neck, ankles crossed casually beneath him. Like a statue, muses Sakura. Like a painting limned in oil, like the most graceful person that she’s seen—

He turns his chin, just enough to catch her staring.

She drops her gaze immediately, shoving strands of hair behind her ears, and pretends to rush into the restroom.

**oOo**


	2. Lespedeza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is this fandom so sweet. ;-;  
> still. sorry for the wait. start of uni got in the way, but no longer. 
> 
> all beta credit goes to my [love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian) who is the bestest. I love you.

**oOo**

She waits, red-faced in the stall, until she hears everyone else bunch back into the dance room.

She slinks out, wishing she had not looked, wishing she might have had just a minute more to look, how his lips had mouthed against the soda tab, the flicker of his tongue, the wet smear on his chin, the hot horror that she’d felt the moment that he’d seen her _seeing_ him—

“Are you alright?”

Sakura looks up, realizing she’s stopped in the middle of the hall. Her cheeks feel warm. Elsewhere, too. Sai there, lashes low in unemotion.

“Um...” She fumbles with her arm, “Y-yeah. Sorry. I was just—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he tells her bluntly. “That would be invasive, and prone to lend a girl the wrong idea.”

“Wha—”

He smiles by a fraction, then swivels on his heel, making his way back into the dance room.

 

The second half of class begins.

Kakashi gives a brief lecture on breathing exercises, how studied rhythm in the lungs may help with things like spinal tension. Sakura keeps her head down when he passes by, listening to the girls beside her giggle as they turn their necks to watch him saunter down the row.

_Hot._

_Like Jared Leto hot._

_Yeah, but prettier._

Something in her bristles. Subtle, but it does. Like she’d felt in grade school, red and sharp, when the others on the playground would rush to crowd around her uncle, clinging and tugging to his clothes on the rare occasion he’d come to pick her up.

Her fists clench. Her eyes narrow on their own.

“We’ll start slow,” proceeds Kakashi. “Relevés. Eyes forward, elbow on the bar.”

Everyone moves, taking up their spots. The music starts. The class does as instructed. Amid it, Sakura notices Kakashi’s attention linger at the front. His gaze on Ino, on her feet, then a smile that he gives her as a compliment before he strides on to the next.

Spurred, Sakura duplifies her effort. She rises taller, straighter, and then down low, her heel bones touching firmly. She focuses on breathing, breathing to the music, until she hears him stepping closer. Her heart springs. She wants to look at him, _needs_ to look at him. Anticipation wires in her stomach—

The music changes track. He pauses to renew the count, then his shadow halts at last to tower over her. Moments pass. Quick, she glimpses from the corner of her vision, and sees that he has crossed his arms. Her face goes hot. Her joints do, too. Still, she does not stop moving.

Then, without much warning, he moves to stand behind her. He takes her by the arm— _strict and warm and soft_ —setting her elbow to rest upon the bar. He toes her foot, nearer to the wall, then glides back up beside her.

“Better,” he tells her.

**oOo**

After cambré as a way to unwind, Kakashi lowers the music and wraps up the class.

Even Sai (who has stood two spots in front of her) bends forward as a way to catch breath, while Ino herself skids down from the wall in exhaustion.

“Good work, guys,” Kakashi announces. “Maybe even closer to harmonization.”

With that, he goes back to his office, pushing the door with his foot just enough to leave it half open. Sakura stares after him, slumping down to the floor so that she may swap to her sneakers. The girls flock to their packs, conversations filling the room. Sweat lusters Sakura’s brow, breath huffing tight through her nostrils. She ravels her laces, then scoots until her back hits the mirror. Even now she can see him. There, towel swung on his neck, hand neatly draining a carton of milk into a portable protein shaker.

She slides in her legs, resting her chin. Wet strands of hair web to her face, allowing the rest of the room to blur all around her. Voices drown out. He mixes the nutriment powder, then opens the lid enough to quaff it all down. She watches him. Generous bulks of white liquid disperse with every leap of his throat. A rindle of milk slips from his mouth, thick and slow, caressing down to his jaw bone. He finishes. Then tongues the stain from his lip, dragging the rest to be licked with the push of one finger. Sakura feels her thighs begin to squeeze in, her hand clamping hard to the spot where he’d _touched_ her—

“No way!” is the shout that slams her back to her senses. “Is it really yours?”

Sakura nearly jolts from the wall. She sits up, carding her hair away from her eyes, and sees that Kakashi has casually whistled his way to the restroom. Immediately, she scoots from her spot, an unfamiliar aftermath spurring her pulse. Her ears feel fevered, gnawings of guilt tingling to the tips of her toes.

“Yeah, it is,” is the cordial response to the shout. “My father gave it to me as an early birthday present.”

Sakura looks to the source, quickly hauling her bag to her lap so that she may huddle against it. Ino. The few girls remaining ensorcelled around her, oohing and aahing over her shoulder.

A brand new iphone. The most recent model, its custom shell a doughy purple contoured in gold.

“Your dad must be the coolest,” one says.

Ino chuckles. “He sort of is.”

“I’ve seen him once. He looks just like you!”

“I guess so,” Ino smiles. “Not counting the stubble, of course.”

They giggle. Sakura swallows. A tug in her tells her to join them. She wants to. Nearly does, but then one of the girls leans towards Ino’s ear, glare honing in to where Sakura’s sitting.

Daunted, Sakura lowers her gaze. The girl steps back, snickering back to the others. Still, Sakura musters courage enough to peek from the edge of her eye, and sees that Ino has furrowed her brow in annoyance.

“Anyway…”

She changes the topic, some really great thriller she’d stayed up watching past midnight.

Sakura’s fingers clench to the strap of her backpack. She smiles, a comforting spark in her gut.

**oOo**

She starts to suspect she’d given Chiyo the wrong time that class would come to an end. Then she remembers that it is not so uncommon, getting picked up this late whenever her grandmother pends on the verge of completing a painting.

Sakura sighs, tracing the Star-Lord design on her backpack. The studio empties person by person, the sky veiling dark by the minute. Kakashi still not in his office. She nips on her lip for constantly checking, then slowly unpacks a chocolate bar she’d snuck from the kitchen.

Suddenly, someone plops down in front of her. Faint scent of lavender. Sakura lowers the bar from her mouth.

Ino.

“Hi,” she smiles.

“Hi,” Sakura smiles back.

“I saw you,” she says. “You held up pretty good today. Even if Kakashi _did_ get all up in your bubble. Must’ve been scary.”

“Thank you,” stammers Sakura. “You were really good, too...”

Ino’s smile desists. She stares at Sakura’s backpack. Sakura finds herself hugging it just a bit tighter, the chocolate bar wrinkling up in her hand.

“You like boy stuff, huh?”

“Um…”

Ino giggles. “It’s pretty dumb, don’t you think? When people think space is for boys.”

“Do you like space?” Sakura finds herself blurting.

“Sometimes.” Ino crosses her legs, scooting closer. “I like Kylo Ren. He’s tough. He’d totally kick Peter Quill’s ass.”

Sakura’s eyes widen by a modicum.

“Or should I say rump?” she snorts. “Not that Star-Lord isn’t cool. He’s just a bit too silly. Like this guy I know.”

Sakura looks to her lap, attempting to think of what to say in return.

“Do you think...they’d get along?”

Ino laughs. “Who? Quill and Kylo? Of course not!” She stills, her eyes baring bluer. “Oh my _god_. You haven’t even seen Star Wars, have you?”

Sakura shakes her head, flush seeping to her cheeks.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” winks Ino. “But you know, I have all the dvds at my house. Maybe I could come over sometime and we could watch them together.”

Sakura perks up. “Really?”

“Really, really.” She pauses, quickly checking the blinking text on her phone. She puts it down, adds, “On one condition, though.”

Sakura swallows, nodding in oath.

“Maybe do it like this a little more often.”

Ino reaches, slipping one of her flower-shaped hair clips into Sakura’s bangs. It pins the strands away from her forehead, revealing the breadth she’d always fought so hard to keep hidden.

“There. Now you look like Gamora.” She stands. “Catch you next week!”

Ino skips out, leaving her hair clip behind, as well as the lavender scent of her perfume.

**oOo**

Half an hour, and Sakura realizes she is indeed the last in the studio, but not the last in the room.

Kakashi strides in, steaming latté in one hand, nose deep in his book with the other. He’s wearing a jacket, slate green, brown fur on the hood, black ankle boots which echo in tandem. Sakura peeks from the crux of her knees, claiming full frontal view into the open door of his office. She veers a bit to the side, making sure to stay at an angle where he might not think she is gawking.

He sits, bringing his feet to cross on his desk. He turns the page of his book, sipping into the chic paper cup of his coffee. He rests his back on the chair, slumping so that the fur of his jacket envelopes his neck. Wolflike and stoic. Sakura feels her toes curling in the more that she watches. His legs so long, thighs firmly outlined by the dark faded jeans he is wearing.

He runs a hand through his hair. It slopes to the side. A faint indentation down his left eye, narrow enough to seem like a ploy of the light. Still, it’s deep, and slightly jagged. Her mind revs alight, envisioning all the ways it could have happened. If he’d fell, if it’d hurt, if perhaps he is afraid of it, too. Like how it feels in her chest when her bangs would stray from her forehead, scared and ashamed that someone might stare, might _notice_ —

“Sakura, right?”

She freezes.

He doesn’t look at her, just puts the book down on his lap for a moment. She nods either way, lump in her throat at the call of her name, heat on her face, so potent that a sensation of fear leaches in.

He turns his chin, glancing once to the left.

“There’s a Buick outside,” he says.

She stands in an instant, fumbling her pack over her shoulders. He turns from the window, back to his book, and sips on his coffee.

Silence.

She scrambles to leave. Then sidesteps, holding her breath as she dares herself back towards his office. Her heart pelts, little knots twisting tight in her stomach. She pauses, just a few feet before him, full aware of Ino’s hair clip still pinning her hair to the side, of the scar she can now clearly see on his face, of the marble expanse of his chin and his jaw and his neck, the _warmth_ of his space.

She clasps the straps of her backpack. They scrunch in her fists.

“Um...Mr. Hatake?”

Nothing at first, then he puts down his book, veering his gaze just enough to regard her. Black eyes, lashed low in tedium. She swallows.

“Thank you,” she musters. “For letting me into your class. I...I learned a lot today. From you.”

Her last few words slip before she can stop them, fragile with truth. He tells her nothing. He brings his book back up again, taking another mouthful of latté.

Seconds pass. Something in her pulverizes. She nearly runs out. Nearly regrets it, nearly knows _why_ —

“I’m glad.”

She looks at him.

“See you next week, Sakura.”

Her eyes widen. His kind voice. She nods, then rushes out, both palms cradling her mouth.

**oOo**

The ride home is slow.

Rain whelms the traffic, heavy enough that the windshield wipers are unable to keep the dashboard from constantly blurring. The sky quakes. A covetous rumble echoes all through the interstate. Cars honk, others take their sweet time on purpose. It’s been several minutes, having been stuck at this stoplight. Chiyo sighs, leaning forward to lower the radio’s volume.

“Forgive me, child,” she starts. “That crazed doctor called. Nagged until my ear fell off.”

Sakura smiles. “It’s alright, nana. I understand.”

Chiyo shakes her head. “You are too forgiving, Sakura. Too quick. Be careful with that.”

Sakura nods, tracing the crumpled sequins of her tutu. The car quiets. The immediate need to hold on to her grandmother, to have her close, wheedling her limbs.

“Sasori...he will come to pick you up this coming week.” Chiyo’s tone sounds tired. The car moves by an inch. “Now, do not cause him too much trouble. I would not be back till evening. And Rasa has an entire litter to fret after. You know this.”

Sakura nods again, an unnameable gnarl scraping in her gut.

“Are you...going to be okay, grandma? Can I come with you? Please?”

Chiyo’s cackle fills the car. “Don’t be silly, Sakura.”

Sakura wipes her nose with the back of her arm. A stinging in her eyes. She sniffles. Chiyo’s laughter simmers.

“And your class?” she asks. “How about it? I saw that teacher through the window. Too young to be instructing. Lounging on the job like that. Thirty years ago the world would have been mortified.”

Sakura turns, helpless not to grin. “He’s real nice, nana. And smart and strong and tall and cool and his name is—”

Chiyo’s brow draws up. Sakura clears her throat, neatly straightening in her seat.

“And anyway, I have a new best friend now,” she mentions proudly. “Her name is Ino. She’s the best dancer in the class. She’s got a new phone. It’s purple. And she gave me this.” She unpins the hair clip from her bangs. “She likes bad guys. Like Kylo Ren.”

Chiyo smiles, gazing at the pin.

“Ino, you say?”

Sakura nods, divvying each detail, till the ride home does not seem so slow anymore.

**oOo**


	3. Autumnal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer than expected, but I think my muse finally dropped by again. ;-; (also, did I mention that I love these two??)
> 
> thanks to my [love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian) for kindly looking over this. I love you♡

**oOo**

It’s the first day of school. It’s cold. The sky is white. Fog presses dew on the windows.

Sakura sits at the front row of US History class. She nestles into herself to try and keep warm. She buttons her coat, stuffing her hands in its pockets. It doesn’t quite help. The buckram uniform skirt does nothing to warm her, and the hand-knitted socks Chiyo had made for her during the summer aren’t long enough to reach her knees anymore.

The teacher struggles with roll call: an elderly woman with reading glasses that make her eyes look like thumbtacks. She uses her finger to sort through the list, losing track each time she looks from the paper. Some of the girls in the back start to pass notes, some doodle on the back of their workbooks. Sakura takes the time to canvass the room. The walls are light blue, postered in biblical references, cartoon cutouts of Jesus quoting straight from the gospel. Blackboards, wiped clean of chalk dust. Even the desks and the floors are pristine. No boys. Not like in her previous school, and all of her teachers are women.

Sakura looks to her lap, toying with the pleats of her skirt. She imagines Kakashi taking attendance, imagines everyone’s name in his voice. She smiles, pretending he were sitting beside her, that her jacket were his, how the faint smell of latté would cling to the sleeves, the scent of his hair left behind on the collar.

Her name is announced. It isn’t the first time. Sakura straightens, shooting her hand in the air.

“Present!”

The teacher slides her glasses down on her spindly nose. She peers at Sakura sternly.

“We do not overdress, Ms. Haruno.” Her tone is ascetic. “Our campus indulges our girls with adequate heaters inside every classroom.”

Everyone stares.

Sakura shrugs off her coat.

**oOo**

It’s lunch break. An apple, fusilli, and salad.

Sakura sits at one of the tables, neatly twisting open her drink. She tucks in her hair, rolling up the sleeves of her uniform sweater. A group of girls pass her by, holding their trays. Dutch braids entwine their blonde hair. They smell nice, their uniforms perfectly pressed. Sakura smiles, waving at them. They glance at her. Down, up. They sashay the opposite way.

Sakura watches as they fill the opposite table. They huddle, then murmur. One points in her direction.

Sakura’s appetite fades.

 

She goes to the restroom. She clutches the straps of her backpack, staring at her face in the mirror. The clip is still there, the one Ino gave her. She presses her palm on her forehead. Exactly five fingers. Sakura’s lip starts to quiver. She bites on her cheek, swallowing heat from her eyelids. It takes all that she has not to rip the clip from her bangs, to not snap it in half, to not _flush_ it—

Voices out in the hallway.

Sakura slinks into the empty stall behind her and locks it. She peeks through the slit of the door. Three girls shoulder in, crowding over the sinks as they giggle.

“Oh my god, Kin,” one says. “You can’t be serious.”

Kin laughs. “I am _so_ serious”

“How did you do it? Weren’t they all under the mattress?”

Kin nods. “My mom was out with her boyfriend. The timing was perfect.” She shrugs off her knapsack, placing it down in the sink. “I only took this one. No way I was risking the rest.”

She opens her bag, revealing the glossy bulk of a magazine. A man on the cover, shirtless and grinning. The two other girls cover their mouths. They reposition, craning their necks over Kin’s shoulder. They flip through the pages. Sakura squints, trying to make out some of the pictures, some of the words on the bold letter titles. The girls start to snicker. Their shoulders bunch up, barefaced excitement in the laughter they try to hold back on a particular image they stop on.

“Oh my god, look at him,” the shortest one says. She traces the page. “He’s so pretty. _Those pecs_. He totally works out every day.”

“Yeah, and with legs like those, he probably dances or something—”

“No way,” Kin interjects. “He’s gross. I mean, his dick is kinda nice, but his arms are total letdowns—”

Sakura unlocks the stall. She steps forward. The girls spin around, their backs attempting to shield the wide open magazine.

Silence.

Sakura clears her throat.

“Can I see?”

The girls glance at each other. They nod, stepping aside to make room for one more.

**oOo**

The week drags on. Math, Gym, History, Bible study.

At home, Sakura keeps up with practice and homework, anxious for Sunday. It’s enough, most times. Though sometimes all she can see are the magazine shots laid out in front of her, reeling pictures that oftentimes move, faces replaced, her blankets drawn up to cover her mouth and her chin as she wrestles for sleep in the stillness.

She stares at the ceiling, quiet guilt like a second pulse through her body. But it isn’t just guilt through her body. She thinks of him. It feels heady, a snag which blooms below her stomach. She swallows, fingers flat on the mattress. She thinks of the restriction on the back of his book, the same as the one in the magazine, and wonders if it’s because he feels it, too, has felt it. Might if by chance feel it now. This moment. For someone. For her. Could _want_ to feel it for her.

Her lip tucks itself between her teeth. She wants to see him. His chest, his legs… Her knees press. Heat.

It’s wrong.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Chiyo, her uncle...they would both say it’s wrong. She rolls face-down in her covers, forcing off thought.

She stays there, an hour unmoving, till the warmth in her ebbs and dreams palliate.

**oOo**

A few mornings later, she wakes without her alarm clock. Her heart flits. It’s Sunday. She untangles herself from her sheets in a hurry, checking the time. Exactly six thirty.

She rolls out of bed, a bubbling jolt of excitement energizing her limbs. She makes her bed quickly, then zips through her room, asearch for her dancewear. She dresses, then carefully laces her slippers. She stands in front of the mirror, brushing the knots from her pink nest of hair. Finished, she sits, counting down a series of butterfly stretches. Calf stretches, too. She leaps to her feet, dusts off her tutu, then checks again for the time. Only ten after seven, though she’s certain that Chiyo has begun with breakfast already, an hour before she usually calls to make sure that she’s up.

Not wanting to badger, Sakura plops on her bed, swinging her legs, a wild series of smiles aglow on her face. Minutes pass. The urge is too strong. She whirls on her backpack and runs to the kitchen.

 

Noises. No scent of breakfast.

She halts at the end of the hallway, backing to huddle close to the wall. She thinks she hears murmuring out in the kitchen. She presses her ear to the stucco, listening closely.

“How is it, then?”

The voice is unmistakable. Soft, almost a whisper.

“Feh,” answers Chiyo. “It’s fine. That doctor doesn’t know what she’s yapping about. As if I’d fall for her leechcraft. It’s madness.”

“It isn’t leechcraft,” Sasori says. “Or madness. It’s medicine.”

Chiyo’s cackle fills the apartment. “As if those pills could mend these old hands. Next thing you know she’ll have me showered in slugs. Ice’ll do it. It always has—”

Sakura slides from her hiding spot. The room falls quiet. Sasori’s gaze shifts, curls of red hair slipping to dandle his face in the kitchenette’s low light. He blinks, his complexion silk-white.

“Oh, child,” says Chiyo. She stands and offers her chair. “Sit. I’ll serve you a plate.” She goes to the stove, warming the burner. The sweet smell of batter sugars the room. “To think you’d be up so early.” There’s a wink in her tone. “But I think I’d know why.”

Sakura smiles, nervously rubbing her arm as she shuffles her way to the table. Sasori’s gaze, like a feather upon her. He’s noticed her outfit, a faint curiosity in the subtle lift of his brow. She flushes, sits down, gathering courage enough to speak up and greet him.

“Good morning, uncle,” she tells him.

He doesn’t say anything. He sips on his coffee.

“How are you?” It’s shaky. “I didn’t know you’d be here already. I would have started with breakfast. Nana mentioned you’d visit—”

“Is it new?”

It’s all that he says. Sakura looks to her clothes. Her fingers clinch to her tutu. She swallows, then shakes her head no.

“Didn’t she tell you?” Chiyo calls from the stove. “It was a squabble, but I managed to wheedle that teacher into making room for one more.” She chuckles. “Said he had enough girls. Feh. Took me ten phone calls, that one. Ballet. Isn’t it, Sakura?”

Sakura nods. “Yes, nana.”

“Tell him, then, child. No need for coyness.”

“Um…” she tries to look up. “I…”

She can’t. She shifts in her seat, the zest in her wilting. An ache through her belly, like if the girls from last Sunday’s class had been right about her clothes being dirty, had been right about _her_. She stares at her lap, head hanging low.

Cups being filled, the sizzle of hotcakes taking form on the skillet. Sasori puts down his coffee and slides from his seat. Sakura feels him walk past her, not daring to peek as he goes to where Chiyo is busy with plates. Words are spoken between them, too faint for her to discern. Curiosity rends. She knows she isn’t supposed to. She does it regardless.

She turns. Chiyo there, her shoulders drawn tense, a onefold of bills Sasori gives her clutched in her trembling hands.

**oOo**

No one talks in the car. Sasori drives, Chiyo beside him. Sakura sits in the back.

His car is different than Chiyo’s. Black leather, the faint scent of oils infixed to the seatbelts. The occasional crumb of modeling paste sways on the opposite seat, remnants of Sasori’s most recent art piece. Sakura starts to collect them, careful not to get caught. She rolls the pieces to amass on her palm. It’s soft, as soft as it must have been in his hands. She smiles, stowing the globule of paste into the little pouch of her backpack.

The trip is short-lived, what with the interstate clear. The dance building there, its parking lot empty. The car brakes, but the engine stays on. Sakura opens the door and clambers out slowly.

It’s freezing, clouds like clusters of ash blockading the sun. Frost on the sidewalks. She turns, but the car has already roared off.

 

It is her first time, not hugging Chiyo goodbye. Stricture, like malaise in her gut. She makes her way to the dance room. Her heart pelts, what-ifs dissuading her step. She takes a lungful of air, clinging tight to the straps of her pack before finally entering.

Everyone there, conversations abuzz at all parts of the room. Nobody stares, nobody notices. Sakura exhales, nervousness fading. An empty spot at the back of the row. She goes to it, shimmying off her backpack and jacket. She fidgets, looking around.

Ino. Up at the front of the room, surrounded by the same group of girls. She giggles, pointing to the screen of her phone. The others join in, bunching beside her. Sakura swallows. Ino’s blue eyes, almost silver in the crux of the downlight. Sakura takes the first step, wanting to greet her, wanting to show that she’d kept true on her promise, wanting to stand close to her, too.

Ino looks up from her phone. Sakura stills. Their eyes meet. For a moment, Sakura considers sinking down to the floor, to hide, to pretend she hadn’t been gawking as hard as she had—

Ino smiles at her. Once and brightly, her soft mouth appended by the purple hue on her eyelids.

“Hey, Sakura!” She waves her over. “Get over here, you’ve gotta take a look at this!”

Sakura beams. She leaps, wasting no time in whisking her way through the rows. She doesn’t get far.

The door opens.

Latté in one hand, book an inch from his nose in the other.

“Sorry, class,” drawls Kakashi. “You wouldn’t believe the wait at the crosswalk.”

**oOo**

He begins with attendance.

He slips from his coat, ticking through names with a coloring marker he borrows from one of the students. He paces, dressed in taut black, a sleeveless top which clings to his neck, all around the wired muscles of his chest and his abdomen, down lower. Sakura’s knee bends to press against the other. She stares. It is more obvious than ever, the breadth caught between his legs. Her thoughts fill. She thinks of the magazine. If without these clothes to hide him he’d look like all of the other men inside the magazine, would look _better_.

She swallows. Her heart thumps, so hard she hears it in her ears. This tall man before her, lips yet flushed from the autumnal freeze of the outdoors.

Someone nudges on her shoulder. She jolts. Heat on her cheeks. Kakashi’s gaze upon her, remiss but still as heavy. She lifts her hand. She barely can. She feels naked, feels as though he’s read it on her face, the unsubtle gnawing of her lip, has watched her _watching_.

He marks her present. He moves on to the next.

 

Class starts.

Warm-ups go by quickly, relentless counts to thirty, till most of everyone is bent against the wall, catching noisy breaths to curb exhaustion. Sakura recovers briskly, more than even Sai, fighting to keep up with the older girls beside her. She counts her breaths, glancing on occasion to where Ino excels in chaînés, toes like silk against the flooring.

They switch to battements. Sakura elevates her effort, remembering to place her elbow firmly on the bar. She rises, aptly as she can each time Kakashi saunters past her. She feels his shadow, his scrutiny upon her as she fights to keep her left arm swanned. She lifts her chin, leveling her spine, and does not stop till at last Kakashi strides off in approval.

A breathing lecture follows. The right know-hows on how to rub down foot cramps, tips on surviving shifts like développé in slowing combinations. Kakashi demonstrates all he mentions, pausing every now and then for Q and A. Water break, then they start with pirouéttes, though not for long. He halts the exercise, calling names from the roster in prechosen teams of two.

“Pas de Deux,” he says. “Fancy for _Step of Two_.” He taps his lip. “We talked about it last month. Practiced. Then I made us stop. Hoped we’d get a few more boys.” He shrugs. “We’ll try it out again.” He swivels on his heel. “Sai. With Sakura.”

Her name grips her by surprise. Sai’s, too, her fingers having crossed behind her back for Ino. She turns. Sai there, already next to her. Everyone splits off into duos. Adolphe’s _Giselle_ eddies from the speakers.

“Hello,” says Sai.

“Hi,” she answers back.

“We met before.” He smiles. “You probably remember. Out in the hallway. You were hiding in the women’s bathroom.”

She stiffens. “Wha—of course I wasn’t hiding! It was, well, I was actually just...”

“Ah,” he says. “ _That’s_ why.”

Silence. Sakura shifts her foot awkwardly.

“Can I pick you up?”

He steps closer. She looks around. Indeed, it is part of the dance.

“Okay,” she utters.

He moves behind her, then grabs her firmly by the waist. He lifts her, neat and without trouble, then puts her down again. He smiles, as dry and as put-on as before.

“Ah. You’re a lot slimmer than Ino. The entreé will be easy.”

She half-nods, unsure on what to say as she fiddles with her fingers. Moments pass. She doesn’t have to check to know he’s staring.

“Can I tell you something, Sakura?”

She looks up. Sai’s eyes are pools of ink, a stark contrast against the pallor of his skin. His lips are bowed, symmetric as the rest of him. She tucks her hair behind her ear, nodding shyly.

“You have a very large forehead.”

Sakura’s face burns up.

She hears it in her ears, a sizzle which follows like a landslide to her fists. It’s different than before. Like her vision streaked in red, like a wasp-sting wrenching in her brow. Her fingers squeeze, her nails sink into her palms, the overwhelming urge to lift her fist and—

Sai blinks.

“Did I say something?” He tilts his chin. “Oh. _Oh_. I’m sorry. I only meant it as an ascertainment.”

He smiles, but it's with a lot more effort than before. Sakura’s fists unclench.

She glares at him. “What?”

“Hm?”

She swallows, knowing others have turned their necks to stare at them.

“Let’s...let’s just do this,” she says.

**oOo**

Five minutes before lunch break.

All curtsy to their partner and stagger to their spots, tiredly unpacking snacks and water. Sakura, too, the muscles in her arms and hamstrings thrumming from exertion.

Conversations spur. Kakashi approaches the frontmost of the room. He clears his throat. Everyone hushes.

“Alright, guys.” He slings a towel over his shoulder. Sweat glistens on his biceps. “We’re halfway through. Though I think I have an important announcement before we fan out.” He cards his fingers through his hair, damp white strands which bundle neatly to reveal the jagged scar along his eyelid. Sakura holds her breath, suspense rousing in her veins as he pats his chin in thought. “Ah. That’s right.” He takes his hand away. “Parent meetings. Next week. Bring jackets. And cookies. Shouldn’t take longer than an hour.” He unfolds his arms. “Kay. Get busy.”

The room lets loose. Girls ditch their homemade lunches to crowd into the hallway, hearts set on the blinking snack machines outside. Sai, too, what with Ino dragging him along.

Sakura stays behind, watching from the corner of her eye as Kakashi ambles back into his office. His door is open, his hands sifting through his desk drawer for the same chintzy orange book from last week. He flips the pages before sitting, ankles crossed atop his workspace.

Fair. Even at a distance. She rips her gaze from him. She stands, careful not to give herself away as she stuffs the empty wrappers of granola back into her backpack. She slinks before the mirror, determined to busy herself with refining her écarté. She swans her arms, reaching high upon her toes, focusing strictly on her reflection. She inhales, then quickly swaps to piqué, feeling the ache twist sharply through her calves. She holds it, steady as she can, until at last her feet land forward without missing. Seconds pass. She swallows. She cannot help it. She peeks upward on the mirror, towards the reflection of his office. And sees it.

He’s looking at her.

Keeps looking at her. Blunt and without pretext. Till finally his gaze veers back to the pages of his book as if it hadn't happened.

**oOo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop me a line. like alms to the pyre♡
> 
> also, shameless fic art [here](http://lovesickforsin.tumblr.com/post/169275843790/misericordia-12in-x-10in). I mean, how could I not.


	4. Gnossienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the wait guys. uni kicked my ass.  
> poured half a spirit into this. cheers. 
> 
> all my thank yous go to my [beloved](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian) who is also my beta. I love you♡

**oOo**

Class dwindles to a close. The last hour is a blur. All Sakura can think about is him, the way his dark eyes had met with hers, the way she’d glanced away and scuttled out the room, certain that her heart would burst if she’d remained a second longer. Part of her thinks she might have dreamt it, might have wanted it so badly that reality had somehow shifted. Part of her knows it’s real. How time had curbed, how he hadn’t blinked, how different it might have been had she turned around and took the daring step in his direction.

She nibbles on the inside of her cheek, unwrapping the ribbons of her shoes. The room is alive with mingling and conversation, but her attention tunnels only towards Kakashi. He’s mixing nutriment powder just like the last time. His long white fingers rake back the wet strands of his hair to expose the entirety of the sawtooth scar along his eye. It’s longer than expected, a streak of pink and mottled flesh which carries high onto his forehead. She wonders what it might feel like, to trace along the fractured skin, to understand just how much the injury had hurt him, and finds herself wondering what he would do if she were to really do it, were to really _touch_ him. If perhaps he would let her touch him, if perhaps he would reach to touch her, _too_ —

A weight in her chest, dark and cruel, a brittle feeling in her throat as she realizes just how silly she is being, how far away he is, _just how untouchable and unobtainable and impossible he is_ —

“Hey, hellooo, earth to Sakura.”

Sakura turns, all but jolting in the process. It’s Ino, cross-legged and scooting back a peg as if it hadn’t been the first time she’d attempted to capture her attention.

“Oh, h-hey, Ino—”

She winks. “You like it, huh?”

Sakura tautens in an instant. “W-wha—” It’s more a wheeze. She looks down, shaking her head vehemently before busying herself with the forgotten laces of her sneakers. “I mean, y-you know, I was only checking to see if maybe he needed some—”

Ino giggles. “The hair clip, silly.”

Sakura pauses, looking up at Ino with her hand reflexively going to the clip.

“Oh,” she manages. “Of course I like it, I more than like it, I kept it on like how we promised—”

“Wow,” grins Ino. “You’re so red!” She leans in, mere inches separating them. “Did you really think I was talking about Kakashi?” She’s lowered her voice at the last part, but that doesn’t stop Sakura’s face from flushing again.

“Um…” She stumbles with words, Ino is so close, the fragile blue-grey of her eyes glimmering below the room light. She’s so pretty. Sakura swallows, secrets already forming in her mouth. She finds she cannot lie to her. “I—”

“I’m just teasing ya!” Ino chuckles and sits back, taking the time to sip on the water in her thermos. She wipes her chin. “Want some?” Sakura nods. The mouthfuls are a welcomed chill inside her belly. She feels her face cool down. “Anyway,” continues Ino, “I knew you’d keep it on. It looks so good on you.”

“Thank you,” stammers Sakura. “I...told my grandma that you gave it to me.”

“Grandma?”

Sakura nods. “My nana. She takes care of me.”

Ino’s eyes go wide. “That’s so cool! I wish I had a nana.”

Sakura feels a smile tug her lip. “Maybe you could meet her,” she adds. “I told her all about you, and—”

“Speaking of which!” Quick, Ino digs into her dancepack and siphons out a pen. She clicks it, handing it to Sakura. “Go ahead,” she says, offering her arm. “Gimme your number. We’ve gotta plan our Star Wars marathon, then I could meet your nana and you could meet my dad! We could even video chat!”

The words hit her unexpectedly. Sakura stills, pen awkwardly balanced in her hand. Ino looks at her, the excitement leaving her expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You don’t want to?”

Sakura shakes her head. “I _really_ want to. I just...well…”

Ino takes her arm back. “What is it?”

“I don’t have one,” Sakura confesses.

“What, a cell phone?”

She nods.

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” says Ino. “My dad didn’t have one till he was thirty. Can you believe that? Here, I’ll show you.”

She scoots in, filling the space to the left of Sakura before bringing up her phone. This close, Sakura can still make out the scent of her lavender shampoo, the warmth of her shoulder pressed comfortably against her own. It’s different than with Chiyo, different than the sparse amount of times Sasori had held her hand when she’d still been losing baby teeth in grade school. It feels like summer, being so near Ino, a place where time slows down. Her stomach flitters, and though she does not look, she knows the remainder of the girls lingering the danceroom have started glancing towards them.

“Er, this might take a sec.”

It does, even as Ino flicks through her phone’s image gallery at a record speed. Sakura moves closer. They’re all but huddled now, just the two of them, knees brought up and touching.

“Here it is!”

Sakura leans in, studying the photo on the screen. It’s of Ino and her father with Ino herself looking a few years younger. The shot is tilted, messily zoomed into their faces. Ino’s caught mid-laugh and her dad is flashing a chic smile. The blur of Ino’s thumb hinders the top corner. They look happy. They also look very much alike, their blonde hair draping to an identic length across their shoulders.

“Priceless, huh? I took it at the Apple Store. He didn’t even know how to turn it on!”

“You guys look really cool,” says Sakura. “He’s really handsome, like a model or an actor—”

“No way!” chuckles Ino. “Gross!”

She makes a playful gagging sound. Sakura bursts into a giggle, unable to keep a straight face even as their laughter simmers.

“What’s your dad like?” Ino asks.

Sakura tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t have a dad.” She clears her throat, as if correcting a mistake: “But I have an uncle—”

“What kind of uncle?”

“Well...he’s an artist. He sculpts and paints and makes all sorts of drawings.”

Ino nods, phone long forgotten in her hand as she urges Sakura to go ahead and continue.

“He’s really smart and sometimes has these really important exhibitions.” Sakura smiles, flashes of old and recent memories reeling in her mind. “My nana, too. She’s an artist. She taught my uncle how to oil paint and how to make his work move.” She wags her fingers in the air, as if twiddling on strings. “Like this!” She looks at Ino, her eyes are wide, quiet wonder in the way her lips part.

“Wow! You mean like puppets? Now I’ve really gotta meet her!” She sits up on her knees, “Your uncle, too! They’re so talented, and probably wayyy cooler than my lame ol’ dad.”

Sakura’s face goes red, a part of her abashed at just how much she’d rambled on. “R-really?

“Really, really! Tell you what,” says Ino, “I’ll drop by your place soon and we can have an art and Star Wars party. I’ll even bring my laptop! Whaddya say?”

Sakura nods, so eager that the hair clip loosens from her bangs.

“Good!” Ino pulls up directions on her phone. “So, what’s the address I’ll be heading to?”

Sakura hadn’t answered a question so quickly in her life.

**oOo**

Ino leaves soon after.

It’s difficult to watch her leave, knowing that more than likely the wait will be a week just to be that close to her again. The room is empty, what with Sai having followed behind Ino. Sakura supposes that they’ve known each other for a while, that they carpool, or that maybe Sai’s parents just happened to arrive at that moment, too. She sighs, pressing back against the mirror. Sasori still has not shown up. She suspects he might have gotten stuck in traffic or had strictly walled off interruptions while working on his art. She draws her legs in. She hopes it’s traffic.

Minutes drag. She hums, then thrums her foot against the rug, but nothing helps in mollifying just how lonely her surroundings are. The room is silent, devoid of movement. The long mirrors eerily stare back, as does Kakashi’s empty office, its door left halfway open.

She tries but fails not to ponder where he’d gone, if perhaps he’d left for latté or had simply decided to go home. She fidgets, unable to tame the growing want of his return. She rests her head back, what-if scenarios playing in her mind, each of which entail her taking a quick glimpse inside his office. She wonders what she’ll find, what she’ll learn, if perhaps he’s left behind the orange book he’s always so captivated by—

Footsteps echo from the hall.

She straightens up, immediately busying herself with staring at the floor. Kakashi saunters in, book in hand and steaming cup of coffee in the other. He doesn’t look at her. She wonders if he’s even noticed her. He goes into his office and sits down, distractedly sliding out a takeout bento from a paper bag he’d laid out on the desk. She watches from her spot. He uses chopsticks when he eats. He opens up a drawer from his desk and adds two sweeteners to his drink. He never once stops reading.

Slow, Sakura rises to her feet. She inhales, unable to stop herself from drifting bit by bit in his direction. She’s facing his desk before she knows it, and only in that moment do his dark eyes lift to peer at her unenthusiastically.

“Um, Mr. Hatake?”

Her voice quakes despite her effort. The air is warm with the spices of his food, his presence.

“Yes?”

“Uh,” she starts, gripping hard onto her arm, “May I…may I call my uncle, please? I th-think he might’ve...forgotten to come and get me.”

At first, Kakashi only stares. Her face, then down to where her hand is all but choking circulation to her arm. He shuts his book, then gets up, casually gesturing to the push-button phone at the corner of his desk area.

“Go ahead,” he says.

He smiles. Faint, but does. He leaves her there, ambling out into the hall. It takes her a few moments to recover, to realize that her pulse is drumming in her ears. She reaches for the phone and lifts it to her cheek, then swiftly dials Sasori’s cell phone number. It lags to ring. She balances it against her shoulder and shifts closer. That’s when she sees it. The orange book. Kakashi’s left it there, clear as day in the middle of his workspace.

Temptation snags her by the spine. So strong, that she cannot help from glancing back over her shoulder. He isn't there. She reaches for it, handling it with both palms as if it were to deteriorate at any second. The world compresses. She huddles closer to the phone and begins to leaf through the pearly pages of the book. There are no pictures, but plenty of risqué context, some of the passages she flips through so overwhelmingly filthy that her breathing stirs up on its own. She stops at a part where the text is especially worn. It must be his favorite. She skims through the words. Her face goes hot, her knee bends to rub against the other. Her hand is pressed onto her mouth by the time a little piece of paper slithers out from someplace in the novel. She gently sets the book aside and picks it up to take a closer look. It’s a photograph, dull with time and folded at the center. Three children smile back at her, one of them undoubtedly Kakashi, though his “smile” is not nearly as impassioned as the boy who’s sneaking bunny ears behind his head. She stares, bringing the picture nearer to her face. There’s a girl between them, short brown hair styled to the exact same length as Sakura’s, a tenderhearted smile that she gives to whoever held the camera.

Sakura’s finger grazes all three faces, as if the touch alone could answer all the mounting questions in her head. She wonders what their names are, how they met, if perhaps they are Kakashi’s friends, his _family_ —

The call’s eighth and final ring finally connects.

“Hello?”

She panics. She jams the photograph anywhere inside the book and quickly bounces back. It’s with a pale face that she simultaneously understands that the image had perhaps served as Kakashi’s bookmark, that there is no way that she can guess between what pages it had fallen out of if she tried—

“Sakura?”

She shuffles back until she meets against the wall. “Y-yeah,” she sputters, “hi, uncle!”

A pause, dark. “Is something wrong?”

Sakura shakes her head. “No! I mean, of course n-nothing’s wrong, I just...well, I’m still waiting for you at the ballet studio.”

A sound, like Sasori standing from a chair. It’s enough to tell her that he had in fact been working on an art piece.

“I’ll be there,” he tells her simply.

She spots Kakashi whistling his way back into the room. She turns her neck, absently twirling her finger between the plastic phone cord.

“U-um, uncle?” she wracks her brain for more to say, “can we...can we get pizza after? The doughy, cheesy kind that nana used to get?” It’s not a lie. She’s starving. She hears Kakashi sit back on his chair, likely noticing how she’d left his book facing the wrong way. She swallows, too loud maybe, and hopes Sasori doesn’t hear it.

“Sure...” It’s measured.

She nods, “Alright, yes! I’ll see you in a bit, uncle!”

She hangs up, carefully balancing the phone back onto its stand. She wastes no time in spinning towards the door, eager to slink out of the office as swiftly as her legs could take her. It’s not to pass.

“Sakura?”

She stops. It takes all that she has to turn around.

“Y-yes, Mr. Hatake?”

He grabs his book. The picture slides onto the desk. He pretends he doesn’t notice.

“He answered, right?”

She nods once, lifting her chin as if the gesture alone could absolve her from her guilt.

“Good thing his place is on your emergency card.” He tilts his head to the side. “It’s not that far, had it come to that. Sasori, right?”

Her face lights up. Her ears do, too. That he would know, that he would utter a name she’d grown up so attached to, that he has, for the first time, addressed her with more than just a couple of words—

“Yes,” she says, all too fast. “Thank you for checking, Mr. Hatake, I’m really sorry for the trouble, I’ll try and make sure it doesn’t happen any—”

“Huh,” he says, soft but enough to shut her up. “I thought I left this,” he culls the tiny photo between two of his fingers, “right in here…” he parts the book, sliding the photo back into its rightful spot. “Funny, isn’t it? How things sometimes happen on their own?”

He looks at her. Her gaze drops to the floor. She couldn’t face him if she tried. Her limbs feel numb. Hot shame prickles the corners of her eyes.

“Oh well,” he says, and shrugs, and that is all he says, before he brings his feet up to his desk and sinks nose-deep into the pages.

**oOo**

It’s not a long wait.

She lifts her head up from the safety of her backpack and listens to the front door of the building being opened. She stands. Sasori there, his dark red curls an austere contrast against the muted colors of the room.

“Uncle,” she says, tensely tugging on her pack. “You’re already here...”

He looks at her, as if he were on the verge of saying something, too, but is interrupted. Kakashi walks out of his office, jacket unzipped to reveal the tight black fabric of his shirt.

“Ah. So you’re Sakura’s uncle?”

It’s more an observation than a question. His snowy hair conceals the larger portion of the scar. He looms above her, his broad shoulders all but dwarfing Sasori’s slighter frame as he approaches.

“Yes.”

Sakura’s throat instantly begins to harden, fear like teeth filling in her stomach. She lowers her head, shoulders wilted, all but certain that Kakashi will let Sasori know what she had done, that perhaps he would prefer if she were no longer part of his class, that she had angered him.

“She was worried about you,” says Kakashi. “I was thinking about calling up a ride for her.”

“No need.”

“Not that it’s trouble—”

“Has she caused a problem?”

“Not at all.”

Her heart jumps. Sakura glances meekly at her uncle, though his expression is as indecipherable as stone.

“Still, it’s nice to meet you,” Kakashi smiles. “Sakura’s a kind girl.”

Sasori doesn’t smile back.

“Sorry for the wait,” he cuts. “Come on.”

Sakura stumbles to comply. Sasori’s already exited the room by the time she’s mustered enough courage to glimpse just one more time behind her. Kakashi there, like marble. His gaze is on her. Her gaze is on him, too.

She goes, tripping as she walks, not once looking away until at last the cold hard walls separate their eyes.

**oOo**

Sasori drives.

He’s allowed her to sit up front beside him. The low purr of the engine accompanies Erik Satie’s _Gnossienne No. 1_. The score is like cobweb in the silence. Sakura looks only forward, fingers tangled loosely in her lap.

“Do you like him?”

His soft voice is almost feathered by the music. Sakura’s face burns up. She cannot lie to him, never could, never has. She nods as they curtail at a stoplight.

“If he likes you,” Sasori starts, “he’ll want to fuck you. Once, twice, in every way he'd like. Then, suddenly, he’ll stop. You’ll wonder why. It’ll have meant nothing to him.”

Sasori looks at her.

“Do you understand that?”

Her throat feels like it’s full of glass. Her skin stretches on her bones. She shuts her eyes, her fists, and feels heat stinging in her eyelids. She nods her head once. It hurts, it’s wrong, _he’s_ _wrong_ —

“It makes you sad, doesn’t it?” Sasori muses. “That it will always be like this? But don’t worry. You can be sad now instead of after.”

The music ends, another starts. _Sur Le Fil_ , though the score does not reach its climax by the time Sasori sharply turns the car. The wheels scritch, the car gyres into an empty parking spot. Sakura unclenches her eyes, the dam she’d been holding loosening so that a tear dribbles down her jaw. Her vision blurs, her knuckles are bone-white, but the blue and yellow logo blinking right outside is no mistake in the afternoon light.

It’s the pizza place, the one she and Chiyo and Sasori used to eat at every Sunday.

“Stay.”

She stays.

She thinks he’ll go inside now, order something just to get her off his back, but instead watches as he strides around the car.

He opens her door.

“Let’s go,” he tells her.

**oOo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop me a line, it never doesn't get the fire going♡
> 
> (also here is Satie's [Gnossienne No. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLFVGwGQcB0), the actual soundtrack to this chapter.  
> &[this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyZ6_Vfk2YI) which is probably one of the (many) anthems to this story. cry with me.)


End file.
